The Curious Case of Sherlock Holmes
by TheIllustriousMadamRed
Summary: Sometimes it seemed as if she had loved him all her life. But she hadn't…right? She'd only known him a couple years. It felt much, much longer.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 _'_ _Because Falling in Love wasn't a choice'_

Sherlock Holmes.

An utterly infuriating mad man.

She'd loved him for so long now, long enough that sometimes it seemed as if she had loved him all her life.

But she hadn't…had she?

It was almost funny, many dismissed her feelings as a silly crush. Born of infatuation and fascination. Besotted by the mystery more than the actuality. And they'd have been right, in the beginning at least. It had started as something silly, an all-consuming desire to notice and be noticed, to escape the confining label of lab assistant that he'd placed her in. In those days he could do no wrong, even when he was terribly cruel.

Such foolish puppy love fades.

She's grown up a little now. The fog of mystery has been lifted, the hormonal rush of fascination fading. But in its place she found something else. An implacable, immovable fondness. Of course she still wanted him to notice her. But it became so much more than that. She understood, far more than people thought she did. His propensity to flatter her, but only as much as it would take to get what he wanted. She'd never outright asked for him to stop, but she was always aware of it. His manipulation was rather obvious after all. She was, contrary to popular belief, quite adept at distinguishing genuine compliments from fake ones.

Jim from IT had been a mistake, a blinding rush of emotion that had smothered her doubts and laughed off her suspicions. But in the end, she'd known. His words, while flattering, didn't have the same kind of ring to them.

Sherlock's compliments were better, but not perfect. Awkward and stilted, but he thought they were perfectly crafted. Surprisingly the fact he was only saying nice things to get what he wanted from her didn't bother her as much as it should have. It was just a way for him to communicate, a way to let him believe that he had the upper hand. A necessity in all of his relationships if he wanted to be comfortable in them.

It didn't make her happy.

No, she wasn't a masochist and his sometimes casual comments could be sharper than any blade. But there were moments that redeemed him, moments that made her smile even though she was on the outside looking in. Brilliance unfolding before her in a grand display of intelligence. He was amazing. Facts that escaped everyone else, meaningless chatter to all except him, suddenly lined up in his mind.

Though he wounded her deeply on occasion, she still found herself fond of him. Not excusing away his behaviour, she'd grown past that. But rather accepting him despite it. She noticed things about him, silly tiny things that imprinted themselves on her memory without her trying to.

Such as the way his upper lip would curl ever so slightly when he stared into the microscope and found mundane boring data staring back. The faint flicker of his tongue as it darted across his pale pink lips, which only ever happened when he was hungry.

Such things shouldn't have been so damn adorable. But they were.

But the thing that called to her most? The thing that damn near broke her heart?

Was how lonely he was.

He was brilliant, like a blazing bonfire on a dark night. Unfortunately, like fire, he kept away everyone and anyone who wanted to get close. He hurt them, struck out at them, because deep down he believed that no one could ever truly like him. That no one could love such a man.

As he was so very fond of saying, he didn't have friends.

And that broke her heart. Because of all the people in all the world, he deserved to be loved.

Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes.

That was a fact. It was a part of her, as vital as her lungs. As much as she would like it if he were to ever reciprocate those feelings, she was okay that he didn't.

Because falling in love with Sherlock Holmes hadn't been a choice. Perhaps if it had been, she might have chosen friendship instead of love that she'd fallen into. He saw her, but didn't see her in the same instant. She was a puzzle solved and tucked away on the top shelf, gathering dust and watching on as he continued his daily life.

Now that she stands there though, stands in the dim shadows of the morgue, watching him hover over a cadaver with a focus that was slightly creepy, she's almost glad she did.

Because he needs her.

Not in the way that he'd ever say. Never outright, never in shining shimmering words between them. But she's noticed he only comes to the morgue when she's on. None of her colleagues have mentioned dealing with the sometimes irate detective.

He tolerates her to be in the same room when he's working.

He trusts her to be accurate in her results, to correctly report what she sees.

And when the boredom clutches at him. When that beautiful brilliant mind turns against him. Between cases when he has no focus, no filter through which to observe the world, when he has no choice but to see everything. When his mind is tearing itself apart, he'll turn to her.

He'll look at her, sometimes bringing her to a stop with a somewhat painful grip on her arm. He'll disassemble her down to fragments. Everything about her, every wrinkle in her clothes, every slight smudge from the faint makeup she applied with a semi experienced hand, the slightest fading in her casual business slacks. He sees everything, except what matters, and he pulls those facts apart. Reassembling them to tell a story about her day.

She knows, by now, to wait patiently until he finishes. Not that it bothers her to wait. But as soon as he's finished he turns back to whatever he was doing, focus restored at least for the moment.

He never says thank you. But by this point she never expects it.

That isn't who he is.

It's not the happiness she expected to find in her life. But this…this matters. He matters.

Because Molly Hooper loves Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 _Authors Notes: Hello out there :D_

 _I hope you enjoy my newest story, and if you do, please feel free to leave me a review (in fact i would absolutely adore it if you did)._

 _I'm starting my Masters this week, (and i've already got homework, which is kind of funny considering it's just orientation week, not that i'm complaining too much) so i really should be studying, but this damn plot bunny wont leave me alone and i am a hopeless procrastinator :D_

 _Anyway, i hope you all have an absolutely fantastic day,_

 _Ta Ta for now,_

 _MadamRed_


	2. Bad Birthdays and Consulting Detectives

Chapter Two

 _'_ _Bad Birthdays and Consulting Detectives. Whatever could go wrong?'_

Her day had been spectacularly awful.

Then again, it seemed fate that her birthdays always were.

The run of bad luck she'd had this morning could only be described as divine, because the chances of all of it happening today required more than just a million to one. Her alarm clock hadn't gone off, during the night some blackout must have occurred and reset the system. Thankfully, accustomed to waking up around that time, her body managed to rouse itself before she would be later. A burned breakfast and a flustered rush into work compounded into clumsiness that had spilt coffee all over her crisp periwinkle blue shirt. While she did have a spare in her locker, it certainly didn't match anything she was wearing. Something of which she was acutely aware. And to top it off her co-workers, who despite evidence to the contrary, were older than she was, had been particularly cutting with their gossip, and snide remarks.

She'd come to relish the silence of the morgue, especially on days like this. So as soon as it became appropriate she'd fled inside of it. The careful placid aura that the crisp place provided did wonders at settling her, and she'd escaped into the mountains of paperwork she still had to do. It had, thankfully, kept her busy for most of her shift.

"Molly?"

His voice is soft, a perfectly pitched timbre that sends a delicious thrill down her spine. It startles her from the fascinating world of autopsy report which she had, at least up until now, been utterly absorbed in. She had not heard him enter, which was a feat in and of itself as the morgue was almost completely silent, save for the gentle hum of the desk lamp and the careful scratching of her pen against paper. Her eyes snap up automatically, almost greedily, to take him in.

Dressed in his usual garb; Belstaff coat, Merlot business shirt (that she'd spent an awful long time staring at), dark slacks and a navy blue scarf. He seemed far sharper to her than the rest of the morgue. As if he were more real, more in focus than anything else in the room. Her brain reminds her with a not so subtle spike that he had spoken her name, indicating he'd wanted her attention and that she had failed to make any kind of verbal response. Clumsily she answered, "Sh..Sherlock?"

Ah, her old arch enemy, the Sherlock stutter. How she loathed that little demonstration of nervousness that seemed to escape her control. It made her feel foolish and stupid, far less intelligent than her academic credit promised. She could often talk to anyone, everyone, in a somewhat confident manner. Except him.

"The lights in here are not sufficient for proper focus, it is no doubt causing damage to your eyes." His voice is calm, smooth, a balm on tired ears. But even her tired mind recognised how curious a topic it was to start on.

"I…I…" she struggles to respond. Ever since his fall, and subsequent resurrection, he'd wait for her to finish her thought, albeit with some obvious frustration. But perhaps he sensed that, in this instant, she truly had nothing to say.

"It's curious." He continues, sharp eyes roving across her face. She could almost see the deductions flickering in his gaze. She desperately tries to think of anything other than the way being the object of such intense focus makes her feel. Especially as it was just a normal gaze for him, he didn't mean anything by it.

"What is?" she responds, at last able to get a sentence out without stuttering. A small victory in the face of a monumentally bad day.

"It's Friday night. It is also your birthday. According to John, this is a day to spend with your loved ones and friends, indulging in a frankly gratuitous amount of cake and alcohol. But not you." She's not sure whether she's worried or touched that he remembered her birthday. Birthdays had long since ceased to be the fun events of her past. He titled his head, regarding her with faintly narrowed eyes. It occurs to her, not for the first time, how much she liked those eyes. That unique cerulean, almost sea glass colour, was far more bewitching than mortal eyes had any right being.

He continued, in that same matter of fact tone, "No. this night you'll spend as you've spent every other birthday since we became acquainted, in the morgue. Why is that?"

She swallows, a hot sharp lump clawing at her throat with a suddenness that was almost alarming. Though normally she could not bring herself to break the gaze of her favourite detective, she cannot help but jerk her eyes away from his. Truth was that she hated being alone on this night. But she could never find it within herself to reach out to someone, knowing that she'd be exceptionally poor company. Her birthdays hadn't been fun, not for a very long time now. Losing her father had sucked the fun from them, and sometimes it felt as if her birthdays had simply become reminders of what she had lost.

"What is it that you want Sherlock?" her voice is thick, layered with unshed tears as she desperately tried to conceal her emotional distress from the ever sharp detective. When the silence lasts a few more moments than she's used to, her gaze darts back up to him. His eyes were distant, as if he were taking her apart and piecing her back together again. She's grown to recognise that look, to love it and despise it in equal measures. But she wanted to snap at him, to demand almost childishly, that he stop looking at her as if she were nothing more than a puzzle to be solved. But she didn't. She couldn't. Just as she often wouldn't say no to this wonderfully infuriating man, she couldn't gather the will or the right words to make him stop looking at her.

 _'_ _At least he is looking.'_ A part of her brain churlishly interjected. Pain lanced through her, sharper than any scalpel she'd wielded in her line of work. A wince flickered on her features before she smothered it.

"Hmm." It was the softest of sounds from him. The tiniest of noises to indicate that he was back in this room rather than in the vaults of his mind, "I want to conduct an experiment on bruising patterns. I require a cadaver."

At least this was normal. Although it was probably a bad sign that such a request was normal for her. She hummed non-committedly for a moment as she glanced down at the reports. Truth was that she did have a cadaver, a middle aged man who had no living relatives to survive him.

"Uhm yeah. Okay. I have one." She stands up, confident on shaky knees as she drifts past him to the waiting corpse. He follows silently, but she's ridiculously aware of him. It was the strangest thing, this hyper sensitivity to his presence. It was as if her body were reaching out to him, waiting for him to reach out to her.

She stands beside the body, feeling a slight pang of regret that she was allowing Sherlock to do this. But though he was a strange and sometimes cruel man, he rarely did things out of mere cruelty. Whatever he was looking for in this corpse would solve a case somewhere down the road. That was a worthy enough reason for it.

"This is Mister Allen, he died of a heart attack earlier today. Will he do?"

He stands opposite her, looking down at the body with a sudden sharpened focus. The body had not yet settled into rigor mortis, so soon had been the hour of his death. So anything he did to bruise the body would still show up. The longer after death it occurred, the less significant the bruising would be. He nodded once, and she smiled and drifted back towards her desk.

"Molly?" For the second time that night, his voice interrupts her thoughts. She glances back at him, but he's not looking at her. For a moment she's afraid that the body would, in fact, be useless. She did not relish having to find another. "I require your assistance in the matter, I cannot make notations and inflict the correct bruising pattern at the same time."

He was…asking for her help? Well…technically he was demanding it, but still!

"Oh! Uhm sure!" Her voice echoes in surprise and there is the faintest hint of delight that she has failed to smother.

She tries not to fumble as she snatches up a clipboard and moves to his side. As he gets to work, using a rope in a curious pattern around the cadavers wrist, she makes a few quick notations on the type of rope and the method of tying, something which would no doubt be useful later. Sherlock murmured softly, "Happy Birthday Molly. That is the appropriate sentiment, is it not?"

He doesn't look at her, so he doesn't see the brilliant goofy smile spread across her face, "Thank you Sherlock."

Perhaps it wasn't such a bad birthday after all.

* * *

 _Authors note: Here we go :) Thank you guys for the reviews and the messages, i'm glad you like it._

 _I hope you guys enjoy this next chapter and please, as always, let me know what you think in that shiny little review box down below._

 _I'd really appreciate it :D_

 _Ta ta for now_

 _~Madamred_


	3. Unexpected Surprises

Chapter Three

 _'_ _An Unexpected Surprise'_

She stirs, some strange chill working its way through the levels of her exhausted mind, rousing her from her fitful slumber. Her body registers its complaints, aches and prickling tingles from where she's slept far too long in a position it was not healthy to adopt.

Not her usual resting place, this painfully hard desk of hers, but she hadn't meant to fall asleep here. She vaguely remembers the words on her report becoming more and more blurry, but that moment of falling asleep is obscured. It had been one hell of a night, and hopefully she wouldn't have to face it again any time soon. A brand new sparkling corpse, literally sparkling (apparently someone thought it was a viable method to choke someone in a vat of glitter, the damn stuff was never going to get out of her morgue), which none of her co-workers were on call to handle which meant she had to work on her day off. To make matters worse she'd been stood up for a date before being called in, so she wasn't exactly in the best of moods. But the icing on the cake had been the bloody screaming match Donovan and Holmes got into in her morgue, one that she couldn't mediate, only listen to as they bickered over her corpse.

It had been the epitome of a long day, and she'd ended up crashing at her desk.

She blinks blearily, trying to bring the world back into focus and she freezes.

There's a mug sitting on her desk.

It's a cute mug, with tumbling kittens and bright colours. Exactly the type of mug that she would own. Except it wasn't hers.

It contains something hot, she can see the spirals of steam dancing merrily above the edge of the cup, unaware of the fact that they shouldn't exist. She blinks again, half convinced that she's merely dreaming, and when that fails to make the vision vanish she raises her head from her arms. Something slides off of her shoulders, bunching at her back as she straightened up. A quick glance showed her it was her blanket, the one she kept in her office for occasions just like this. Except she hadn't grabbed it before she went to sleep, having not intended to fall asleep at her desk.

She can smell the contents of the mug. A powerful rich scent, a promise of luxurious coffee that had no doubt been the cause of her awakening. If she's right, and she usually is, it's a very fine Italian coffee. One of her very few vices. Certainly not a coffee that was widely available in the Hospital.

Her fingers itched to pick it up, to embrace the warmth of the cup and let the coffee shake her brain awake. But an association with Sherlock Holmes had taught her caution in randomly accepting drinks. Not that she thought there was any reason anyone wanted to hurt her.

There was a note, cursive curling script scrawled across a spare sheet of paper.

 _'_ _Molly,_

 _Sleeping at one's desk is terrible for one's health. As a doctor you should be aware of that._

 _Have the coffee before you try to drive home._

 _It's safe._

 _SH'_

A soft grin spread across her face, Sherlock Holmes had brought her coffee. She recognised the handwriting, having become painfully aware of the graceful loops and arches on anything he signed. He had made her coffee, something she wasn't sure he'd ever done for John. She was reasonably sure he hadn't poisoned it, after all he may flatter her or cut her with sharp words, but he didn't lie to her.

Whatever his motivations were, this was nice. With the way her days seemed to be going a little bit of niceness was exactly what she needed. The fact that it came from the one person she never expected niceness from made it all the more special.

Wait…

When had Sherlock seen her coffee order? She always got him coffee, and he was never around her enough to notice it.

How…Curious.

* * *

 _Authors note: Greetings :)_

 _This weeks offering is a little short, and i apologize for that. There is a LOT of reading for my Masters that i'm expected to do, which is...daunting to say the least._

 _Oh...I might be reworking the description, so if it suddenly changes, then i did :D_

 _Anyway, please let me know what you think so far :D_

 _I hope you have an absolutely wonderful day,_

 _Ta ta for now,_

 _~MadamRed_


	4. Playing Doctor

Chapter Four

 _'A new kind of normal'_

You know for a man like him, with his propensity to insult people beyond the lines of tolerance, it's actually surprising that he doesn't get attacked more often.

She wishes she could say that she was used to him turning up at all hours, battered and bleeding, needing immediate medical treatment. But she wasn't. It still frightened her. Not the loud crash of his arrival, nor the disorganized pawing through her cabinets or the harsh muttered curses as he moved just beyond endurance. No, what scared her was the fact that he was this injured, that he needed to come to her because if he didn't he wouldn't make it through the next few days.

She thought that since his reintroduction into the world, having survived his fall with atypical grace, he wouldn't need to come back to her anymore. She understood why he had sought her out during that awful period between the fall and his re-emergence, she was the only one who knew, the only one he could trust to help. He'd drifted into her life, require some patching up, and drift back out again with barely an explanation as to what he was doing. She figured he'd just wake up john and have him tend to the wounds he refused to seek hospital care for.

But instead it was her place he arrived in. Far louder than normal, shunting her from sleeping to awake with all the gentleness of a pail of ice water.

When she stepped from her room, wrapped in her faded floral nightgown, she could tell he was far more injured than she had seen for a while. She could have admonished him. She could have asked him a million questions, and badgered him for answers. She could have called an ambulance and had done with it. There were a lot of things she could have done that would have been better for her sanity.

But instead she simply fetched her unusually well stocked first aid kit, certainly a kit that was more liberally stocked than most commercial versions, and started tending to his wounds.

It was, in some ways, a revival of the careful time they had spent together. She could not have asked questions then, because he had asked her not to. Because what he was doing, he couldn't stand for anyone to know. So she'd stitched him up, tended to his hurt as best she could, and then he was gone. Like a flash of lightning in a storm. There, but then gone so quickly that you couldn't be sure he existed in the first place.

No matter how many times she did this, it was still odd for her. Still strange to be this close to the untouchable detective. But it gave her plenty of opportunity to memorize new information about him.

Such as that unique scent. The crisp clean cologne, the hint of cigarette smoke, the dusky remnants of the foggy London air. But all of that was marred by the scent of blood. Most people don't believe that blood has a scent. But it does, particularly when fresh. It's almost a physical sense, one she can taste on her tongue. Rust and copper, a bitter tang in the air that clung on far longer than the actual physicality of it.

He's surprisingly quiet as she stitches him back together again. Seemingly content to allow her hands to work their miracles over bruised flesh. He murmurs once, when she sucks in a sharp breath upon noticing an elongate scratch along his ribs, "He had a knife. I miscalculated."

Worry squeezes her heart. But the wound is not deep, shallower than the assailant intended no doubt. It wouldn't require stitches at least. But it still made her worry.

Fortunately the wounds are not that serious. More painful than lethal, but there were an awful lot of bruises and scrapes. His knuckles have fared the worst, bleeding and dark with bruises yet to properly form. She'd be surprised if he could open his hands tomorrow.

All the while she works, quiet and focused, she's barely aware of his gaze. He did that a lot when she tended to him, watched her. But not really watching her, more like looking past her. She'd learned to block it out, use the comfort of her medical training to narrow her world down to injuries and treatments.

"Have you eaten?" her voice is soft, and it causes him to flinch ever so slightly.

"No." his reply is softer still, and his mind is still no doubt wrapped up in whatever case it was that he was working on.

"Did you want to?" at the very least her Sherlock stutter hadn't made an appearance. But this was also a kind of routine for them. Sometimes he wouldn't eat for days, weeks as he tracked down the parts of Moriaty's network. So when he came here she asked him, only once, if he would like to eat. She'd made him promise that he would ask her to make something if he was hungry, and in return she wouldn't pester him about it.

But he's silent, she flicks her gaze up to his face, surprised to see his eyes focused on hers almost immediately. He swallows, then nods. She doesn't try to fight the smile, and replies, "I'll make you something after I'm done here okay?"

Another nod.

There is a peacefulness in this. Despite her worry, despite her anguish at seeing him hurt, there is a calmness in this routine. A new kind of normal that defied definitions.

That was enough for now.

* * *

 _Authors note: Hello out there,_

 _Hope you enjoy my new chapter. Please let me know what you think in that shiny review box, It really helps inspire me :)_

 _Have an absolutely wonderful day._

 _Ta ta for now,_

 _~Madamred_


	5. Wicked Heat

_'Wicked heat'_

Fingers drift across skin, skimming and dipping in and out of secret places. Everywhere he touches is set aflame. She's trapped, wanton and needy, bound up in red silk to a demanding lover. She wants to touch him, but her hands are bound, and she cannot gather enough cognisance to free them. He commands, sharp glinting sea glass eyes boring into hers, and she obeys, his name a fevered breath from her lips.

He gives her that arrogant smirk, the one she's seen him use on people who didn't know they'd already lost, and it thrills her. It is a declaration, an promise, and a solid knowledge in the core of her that he's thinking of deliciously sinful things, that he knows that there will be no hesitation only unthinking obedience.

He makes her feel alive, a flickering frenzied creature of wanton sensation. His mouth feeds at her skin, licking and worshiping as if she were some ancient goddess given form. He dominates, moving only when he wishes to, giving pleasure only when he desires to. It should have infuriated her, it should have made her knock him aside and stop this game. But it didn't. Instead she found herself at the mercy of his whims, pleading desperately to be taken higher. To be shattered in a cacophony of pleasure that his oh so talented fingers promised.

Her skin is alive with sensation. The cool silk of her sheets on her back, around her wrists. The heat of him pressing against her as he taught her body to dance with his. The heavy weight as he leant up to catch her mouth with a kiss that made her whimper.

She's caught up in feeling, in being tempted and teased. He is like a creature made for pleasure, every touch brings a breathy sigh or a stifled groan. His own voice echoing hers as they both desperately climb that slippery shining peak.

He groans her name, a fevered "Molly", the sensation of his breath against her ear.

And then the world shatters like glass and she is alone in her bed. Alone in her mousy little flat, no sign of silk sheets or that all too tempting detective.

Another dream. Another moment caught up in wanting, in needing him, only to be broken by the sounds of her alarm and the sharp stabbing sunlight. Again she has woken up alone, unsatisfied and unappreciated. It takes a few moments for her body to calm. For the raging fire ignited by her dream to slowly die down as she stares forlornly up at her ceiling.

This couldn't possibly be healthy, could it? Being brought to the edge this many times and falling short of that glorious peak. She's not sure which one is more irritating, that these dreams are wishes are unfulfilled, or that they get so, so good and shatter before she can.

Either way, she doesn't know how to stop them, or if she really wanted them stopped.

She only knows that it's going to be bloody awkward if he deigns to make a visit to her morgue.

* * *

 _Authors note: Sorry about the delay, I've barely had any time to write this week. there's been a huge mess with assignments and readings and stupid engagement summaries that i really don't care about but have had to do anyway. *sigh* anyway, i hope you enjoy this little addition. i know it's quite short, so forgive me for that please :)_

 _Anyway, i'll try to make up for it in the next chapter, but hopefully you guys enjoyed this. If you did, please leave a little review down below :)_

 _(Also, thank you to the people who guest reviewed, i can't answer you directly, but i want you to know i appreciate the effort :)_

 _Ta ta for now,_

 _~Madamred_


	6. How Curious

Chapter 6

 _'Molly Hooper has always been clumsy. A fact of her existence that is not helped by her attraction to a certain consulting detective.'_

He was being unusually nice.

Once she was willing to accept as a fluke, twice even. But this…no this was definitely strange.

He hasn't insulted her today. Not once. Usually there's something, some casual cutting comment that bites a little sharper than it had any right to. Weird thing was that she wouldn't have blamed him for it today, not with her being at her absolute worst. She feels discombobulated. Her mind has been twisting and turning, all too vivid dreams that linger pleasantly on the edge of waking but leave her far more tired than when she went to bed. Her Sherlock stutter keeps appearing at the worst possible times, and she's dropped at least three instruments. Despite her best intentions she's been clumsy and loud. Normally that would have earned her any number of harsh criticisms from the consulting detective, but he hasn't said anything. The only way she knows that he's heard her mess up, is the slightest of sighs when she's particularly loud. Not that she's quite complaining about the lack of insults, because she's really not. It is, however, making her curious.

Mysterious behaviour aside, all she really wants is for this day to end. Despite his presence, she feels awkward and ungainly, like she doesn't quite fit in her own skin. But whatever deity had it out for her didn't seem to be finished, or willing to be satisfied with what they've already done to her.

Because as she steps towards him, her ankle twists and she goes down in a painful jumble of limbs. It hurts, more than she was expecting. Especially when the coffee she was carrying splashes against her in a blistering arc of heat.

For a moment she's stunned. The painful impact, the prickling burning sensations that were etching themselves into her left arm and neck trickle into her awareness. A startled pained gasp left her lips before she manages to stifle it and she prays that he hasn't heard. Humiliation rolls up in a hot blush across her cheeks. This was just perfect. Absolutely bloody perfect!

Sherlock is paying attention however, because he lets out a sigh and suddenly appears next to her, "Molly honestly."

His voice is faintly chiding. But there are no words that she can call to her defence. She was fed up with this day, even with this curious niceness, and to her to her abject horror tears begin to tumble down her cheeks. She refuses to look at him, desperately wishing that the ground would just open up and swallow her whole. He makes another sound, a soft sound that could almost have been a sigh, and in one surprisingly fluid motion picks her up.

He didn't seem bothered, or at all inconvenienced. It was as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. Sherlock easily carries her over to one of the large medical tables, gently perching her on the edge of the stainless steel. Those damned tears don't stop, and his face flickers almost imperceptibly. She can't keep her eyes on his face, she just wants this whole damned day to be over so that she can go home, crawl into bed and forget such a horrible embarrassing thing had ever happened. but apparently she was going to have to sit through one of his patented scoldings.

But instead of the caustic comments she expects, he simply says, "I have to check the ankle."

She nods, cheeks still burning, eyes still dripping tears. He seems almost awkward as he crouches down, it's not a side of him that she's used to seeing. His long delicate fingers gently take hold of her leg, slipping the shoe and sock with relative ease. The pain flares, throbbing in hot flushes as he manipulates her fingers are cool, gentle, but firm against her skin.

"I believe that it is a sprain, rather than a fracture. Sufficient ice and rest should restore it." She nods, teeth clasping her lower lip as she tries to stop herself from shaking.

He straightens up, and instead of stalking off like she expected, he hovered for a moment. If she didn't know better, it was as if he was concerned.

"You've not been sleeping well." it's a statement not a question, but she nods again.

"Bad dreams?" he questions, and she knows that he's staring at her. her teeth clasp her lower lip again, a brief nervous gesture, because they aren't bad dreams. Not all of them anyway. They were good dreams, stupidly good dreams. But painful in their own way. she half shrugs, and somehow he seems to understand. But instead of prying or commenting further, he simply states, "ah.

She didn't think it was possible, but her face burned even brighter. At least the tears were slowing, and she'd managed to avoid bursting into those heart wrenching sobs that would have completed her humiliation.

Suddenly he dabbed at her face with a soft hankerchief, causing her to flinch back in surprise. Finally she met his eyes, those wonderful sea glass eyes. He seems faintly embarrassed, but there's no hint of awkwardness when he says, "Your face is mess, Molly, Be still."

She doesnst know what to say, or what to do. So she simply obeys. One long fingered hand gently touched her chin, keeping her head up, whilst the other carefully wiped at the tears on her face. The look on his face was indescribable, a strange expression she's never seen him make before.

"does it hurt?" his voice is calm, soft.

"hmm?" She's a little distracted by the look in his eyes to understand his question.

"Your ankle. Does it hurt?" he seems faintly amused. She flushes again and hurriedly shakes her head.

"Oh, uh. Not really. It's not bad."

There was a flash of a smile, a brief glimpse of white teeth behind pale lips, "stay here, I will fetch some ice and a bandage. Do try not to cry again."

But his words lacked bite, instead…instead they almost seemed fond.

She watches him go, painfully aware of the cooling coffee against her skin, the throb of her sprained ankle, and a peculiar sensation in the middle of her chest. She was embarrassed yes, but he…he was taking care of her.

* * *

 _Authors note: Here we go. Another chapter update :)_

 _I hope you guys are enjoying the path this story is taking :)_

 _Have a super fantastic day_

 _Ta ta for now_

 _~Madamred_


	7. A Most Unusual Discovery

_'_ _A most unusual discovery'_

It feels as if she's stepped outside the humdrum of her everyday life. Like an actor thrust onto a stage in the middle of a play she doesn't know, yet still is expected to keep up. It was strange. But not an altogether terrible feeling. How could it be? With his gentle fingers on her ankle, wrapping it carefully, but firmly in the bandage. She's watching him, caught between wanting to speak and being far too afraid to ruin this delicate balance between them. She's not used to having people patch her up, especially when the person doing the patching is him. She gropes desperately for something…anything to say, and finally, "Thank you Sherlock. I know you're busy. You didn't have to do this."

He lets out an amused sound, and she can see the corners of his lips curl up briefly, "Not that I was concerned. But given your current state of distress, you no doubt would have done yourself further injury." The comment is sharp, but so uniquely him that it makes her laugh. Suddenly he glances up at her and she freezes in place, eyes wide and body tense. Had she offended him by laughing? But when he speaks his voice is gentle, "You finally laughed. You haven't smiled all day."

"Oh?" Her voice is softer still, confused. Surely she must have smiled at least once? Usually she cant help it around him. Odder still, was the fact that he was choosing to comment on it.

In response to her apparent confusion, he continues, "Usually you smile around me. all the time. It's irritating how cheerful you can be."

Her cheeks light up in a burning hot flush, the last thing that she ever wanted was to be irritating, "I'm sorry. I'll try to stop."

He stands up, the movement strangely fluid, his voice faintly chiding as he says, "I don't want you to stop." She blinks, he's now looming over her, and he was especially good at it. she was partially aware that she looks vaguely like a deer caught in headlights.

He seems to be waiting for a response, and her brain suddenly manages to jumble together a coherent sentence, "I wont then." She manages nervously.

Another smirk tugs at his lips as he stares down at her, his tone faintly long suffering, "You are almost…exasperatingly cheerful. Even when you have no discernible reason to be. I say harsh things to you, and yet the next time you see me, you smile at me. I don't understand it. I've never needed people to smile at me." Sherlock considers her for a long moment, and she's far too caught up in his words to stop him now. He glances away, somewhat awkwardly before meeting her eyes, "I don't like inconsequential things. people smiling, whether at me or not, shouldn't matter. They've…never mattered before."

He lets out a frustrated breath and runs his hand roughly through his hair, "But I didn't like it when I couldn't see it. When I left and I couldn't see you smiling at me….it…it bothered me." Her chest feels tight, and she's confused at what all of this means. But he's looking at her in a new way, like she wasn't just some puzzle collecting dust on the shelf. "John smiles at me, but not in the same way. His smile is not unpleasant. But it doesns't…feel the same. You're the only one who smiled at me, without asking anything of me. Who sees me and yet still smiles. I don't understand it."

His confusion is touching, his eyes are vividly intense, and she's pretty certain that her knees have turned to absolute jelly. Because that feeling. That feeling he was describing…that wasn't something he'd ever admitted before. He suddenly leans in, bracing himself on either side of her hands. His face is very close, and her body can't help but react to it.

"Why do you think your smile affects me Molly?" His voice is a sibilant purr, and the tenor does wonders to her insides.

She manages to make a sound, "Uhhuhm…" but her voice fails her before she can actually speak.

There is amusement now in his gaze, but something else. something she's not quite sure of flickering in his eyes.

"Haven't you figured it out yet Molly?" There is a hint of darkness in his tone, a velvet richness that slides across her senses and sends shivers down her spine.

"Figured what out?" She can't get over how close he is, the way his breath tickles across his skin, how his scent seems to engulf her.

He laughs, a very male sound that makes things low in her belly clench, "I guess I'm going to have to make you understand."

And then he kissed her. Sherlock Bloody Holmes kissed her.

His lips were smooth, surprisingly cool against her. He teased her, gently dancing his tongue against her lips, almost as if he were daring her to play. As soon as she opened her mouth, he took control. He dominated, he devoured. Heat spread through her, bright and burning, filling her with an almost irresistible need for more. She clung to him, fingers digging into the rich merlot shirt, she can feel his heart racing beneath her fingertips.

He pulls away, both of them left gasping greedily for air. But his gaze stays locked on hers, hot and possessive. It is not a look she ever imagined she'd see from him and it makes her breath catch almost painfully.

"Do you understand yet Molly?" her name sounds delicious in that dark thrilling tone of his. God, what his voice had the power to do to her. "or shall I repeat the lesson?"

Understanding floods her in a sudden rush of warmth. His mysterious niceness, the way he had looked out for her, had refrained from snarkily commenting every time he visited. He'd even asked her for food. Was that…was that because he was interested in her?!

She blinks a little myopically, still hesitant to give voice to her thoughts. What if this was another one of his games? His experiments? Hope is a tricky precarious thing and if this was just a trick then it was going to hurt. Doubt clawed at her, and he was still waiting for an answer. She had wished for this moment, wished for him to notice her, to kiss her. She just had to be a little bit brave.

"So…you being nice to me…that's because…" her voice trails off, eyes darting away before she can finish the question, and he chuckles at her. His hand comes up and gently but firmly turns her face back to him.

"Because I want you to keep smiling at me Molly. You matter. More than you should. I don't know how you did it. But you're important." Her breath catches again at the confident look on his face. It was as if he was making another one of his brilliant deductions and was determined to see it to the end.

"Why didn't you say anything?!" they'd wasted weeks!

"Because I was waiting for you to ask." His voice is now slightly uncertain, and that tugs at her heart more than she's willing to admit. "Sentiment isn't something I indulge in. I don't have a proper understanding of it. I wasn't sure if…you..." he seems to struggle here. And she understands.

"I've been in love with you for ages Sherlock. I never thought you'd ever see me that way." it seems her mouth has decided to take action independent of her brain.

He chuckled softly at her surprise, "I see. So that's why you never…Hmmph" He suddenly grins, "Allow me to make up for my lack of insight." The words are barely out of his mouth before he's nudging apart her legs and standing between them to kiss her again.

It doesn't matter that her ankle aches, that the table is almost painfully cold and that this is indeed her workplace which isn't exactly private. No, what matters is him. His mouth on hers, demanding, controlling and decadently dueling with her. What matters is the way that she can't seem to be touching him enough, that his heart and hers are thundering along together. It's much better than any of her dreams had ever managed.

* * *

 _Authors note: And here we go! This is the last chapter of the story. I hope that you've all enjoyed reading it._

 _I might continue it later if people are interested, but for now this is the end._

 _I would love to know what you guys think, even though this story is now posted in the complete section please take the time to review. I would really appreciate it!_

 _Anyway, have an absolutely fantastic day,_

 _Ta ta for now,_

 _~MadamRed_


	8. Dancing in Heat: Bonus Chapter

Chapter 8: Bonus Chapter

 _'Dancing In Heat'_

She doesn't quite remember getting home. The trip from the morgue is lost in a haze of taunting teasing touches, of wanting and not getting. It's difficult to remember the taxi beyond the tantalising mix of cologne and London air that clings to his skin. But she is suddenly standing on the pavement outside her place, staring up at the clear night sky with a bemused befuddled mind. But Sherlock does not seem one to take in the beauty of the night. Instead he helps her inside, cautious of her injured ankle.

There is a careful tension in him, a coolness that seems almost too perfect. It is a re-emergence of the careful mask he always wears, and for a few brief moments doubt begins to sink in. the journey from the taxi to her doorstep has given her mind enough time to wander, to doubt that this could possibly be real. She feels almost unbearably awkward as he opens her door, half convinced that it is all a mistake. That someone like him could ever want someone like her.

But those doubts and those fears are vanquished as her door swings shut. The coolness she had sensed from him, the careful restraint vanishes and his mouth locks with hers, desperate and controlling. Sensations, glorious and sparkling danced within her, drowning her in insensibility, drawing her fingers to clutch at him for some form of support.

The door holds her up, stops her shaky knees from letting her fall. The world seems to tremble around her, and it's a wonder that she can think at all. The touch of his mouth on hers is monumental, unbelievable. She'd never been one for kisses, found them nice but never exquisite. It turns out she just hadn't been kissing the right people.

Kissing him was exhilarating, a catch in her blood that makes her feel more alive than she's felt in a very long time. She wants to continue kissing him, finding out the different patterns and movements that make her blood sing. He seems just as eager to experiment, angling his head and kissing her with a deepness that is almost too much and just right at the same time. There is a hunger in him, a desperation she can feel in the tremble of his muscles. The need for oxygen is gradually intruding on her, but she cannot bring herself to break the decadence of this kiss. It is dearer to her than air, more quenching and satisfying than water ever could manage to be. She is poised on the edge of drowning in him, and there is nothing she wants more.

Finally, or perhaps far too soon, his mouth breaks from hers. Breathless and panting they freeze, still pressed against her door in a haze of sensation. She cannot help but be confused, the fire building in her belly demands concrete answers, but something must have shone in her eyes. He chuckles, albeit a bit breathlessly, "I have no intention of stopping molly. But you are injured, and it would not be seemly to fuck you against the door for our first time."

The casual way he mouths the obscenity has a terrible effect on her. her insides clench and her entire body feels warm. Her breath catches, and she knows that he noticed. It is a testament to the tempting nature of his kisses that the idea of remaining here, even injured, is not a terrible one. He chuckles again, "Maybe later, perhaps."

She cannot answer that smirk, that teasing cocky half smile that always seemed to make her heart thump. He wore it when things were going his way, when a case was all but solved and what was left was the grand unveiling. It was a confident look, one that promised all kinds of things. For the first time in quite a while, that smile didn't make her apprehensive.

He pulls her along, and her knees feel weak and shaky with the effort to stand. It feels unreal, a promise in a dream given shape and form. His hands are impossible warm against her skin, and her mind is already providing helpful suggestions on just how they would feel against other parts of her.

They stumble into her room, and she wishes briefly that her bed cover was not that tartan mauve she knew he disliked. But he makes no comment, instead stopping to kiss her again at the edge of her bed.

All thoughts of bedspreads and injuries vanish in a haze of sensation. His hands roaming against her skin, her fingers dancing along the once forbidden flesh of his form. Undressing should have been awkward, ungainly movements in a desperate need for something more. But it seems to take barely any time at all.

He is glorious, a creature formed of moonlight and shadows, of sea glass and stardust. The lights from her bedroom make him almost ethereal and the look in his eyes promises something she'd never expected. There is heat yes, raw and primal that turns his gaze molten and her insides into a quivering mess. But as he sinks inside her, that feeling of completeness, of being almost too full and sparkling fire, there is something more in his eyes.

A warmth that didn't reflect desire. But rather, something more. But before she can respond, before she can comment, he moves. A glorious ingress that makes her feel as if she may come apart before long. But he freezes, buried in her insides, and asks her with a soft smile if she is alright. But she's more than that, and yet not. She begs, whimpering for him to just _move._

Chuckling he obeys, swift and sharp, filling up her insides in powerful strokes. It is a pleasure far greater than she expected, a shining shimmering sensation that seems almost too bright to be real. He feels like sunlight, impossibly warm, powerful and dominating in the darkness.

Every gasp she makes, every movement that makes her shake he catalogues and remembers, playing her body in a dark symphony that promised the ecstasy of destruction. Her mouth brushes against his neck, the pounding pulse and taste of sweat a brief distraction from the heat he builds inside her.

The sounds that she's making aren't conscious, in fact she's barely aware of anything but the glorious velvety feel of him within her, of his heart racing alongside hers and her blood singing out in exultation.

He draws her along, dominating and commanding, driving her towards a peak she wasn't sure that she'd survive. His groans and harsh breaths against her skin seem more desperate, a desperate dance of flesh and soul that drove them higher and higher.

Her world seems hazy and unreal, the way he dances with her seems almost too good to be real, too promising to be reality. His name drops from her lips a second before his mouth clashes with hers in a fiery kiss. His hips move and it is just that little bit more, that tiny bit deeper that she finally reaches that shining peak.

She shatters, crystalline fragments as pleasure pulses almost unbearably through her. His mouth breaks away, groaning out her name as he shatters alongside her.

It is a strange and silly thought that comes to her as she floats in a sea of warmth and sensation, the thought that she's not sure how she could possibly survive anything better than that. But she's certainly willing to try it.

...Maybe she could remind him about the door...

* * *

 _Authors Note: Hi there guys! thank you to those that have reviewed. As promised here's a little extra chapter for you :D_

 _I do apologise about the delay, this thesis thing is really dragging me down. it's been a while since i've been able to write that wasnt academic in nature._

 _Anyway, if this is your first time reading, or if you are a returning reader, please take a few moments to let me know what you think :D it would go a long way to cheering me up after the week I've had._

 _Ta ta for now_

 _~Madamred_


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